Shirley (43 page)

reminded them that the business was none of their managing.

About half-past three the procession turned back, and at four once more regained the starting-place.

Long lines of benches were arranged in the close-shorn fields round the school. There the children

were seated, and huge baskets, covered up with white cloths, and great smoking tin vessels were brought out. Ere the distribution of good things commenced, a brief grace was pronounced by Mr.

Hall and sung by the children. Their young voices sounded melodious, even touching, in the open air.

Large currant buns and hot, well-sweetened tea were then administered in the proper spirit of liberality. No stinting was permitted on this day, at least; the rule for each child's allowance being that it was to have about twice as much as it could possibly eat, thus leaving a reserve to be carried home

for such as age, sickness, or other impediment prevented from coming to the feast. Buns and beer circulated, meantime, amongst the musicians and church-singers; afterwards the benches were

removed, and they were left to unbend their spirits in licensed play.

A bell summoned the teachers, patrons, and patronesses to the schoolroom. Miss Keeldar, Miss Helstone, and many other ladies were already there, glancing over the arrangement of their separate

trays and tables. Most of the female servants of the neighbourhood, together with the clerks', the singers', and the musicians' wives, had been pressed into the service of the day as waiters. Each vied

with the other in smartness and daintiness of dress, and many handsome forms were seen amongst the

younger ones. About half a score were cutting bread and butter, another half-score supplying hot water, brought from the coppers of the rector's kitchen. The profusion of flowers and evergreens decorating the white walls, the show of silver teapots and bright porcelain on the tables, the active figures, blithe faces, gay dresses flitting about everywhere, formed altogether a refreshing and lively

spectacle. Everybody talked, not very loudly, but merrily, and the canary birds sang shrill in their high-hung cages.

Caroline, as the rector's niece, took her place at one of the three first tables; Mrs. Boultby and Margaret Hall officiated at the others. At these tables the
élite
of the company were to be entertained, strict rules of equality not being more in fashion at Briarfield than elsewhere. Miss Helstone removed

her bonnet and scarf, that she might be less oppressed with the heat. Her long curls, falling on her neck, served almost in place of a veil; and for the rest, her muslin dress was fashioned modestly as a

nun's robe, enabling her thus to dispense with the encumbrance of a shawl.

The room was filling. Mr. Hall had taken his post beside Caroline, who now, as she rearranged the

cups and spoons before her, whispered to him in a low voice remarks on the events of the day. He looked a little grave about what had taken place in Royd Lane, and she tried to smile him out of his

seriousness. Miss Keeldar sat near—for a wonder, neither laughing nor talking; on the contrary, very

still, and gazing round her vigilantly. She seemed afraid lest some intruder should take a seat she apparently wished to reserve next her own. Ever and anon she spread her satin dress over an undue

portion of the bench, or laid her gloves or her embroidered handkerchief upon it. Caroline noticed

this
manège
at last, and asked her what friend she expected. Shirley bent towards her, almost touched her ear with her rosy lips, and whispered with a musical softness that often characterized her tones when what she said tended even remotely to stir some sweet secret source of feeling in her heart, "I expect Mr. Moore. I saw him last night, and I made him promise to come with his sister, and to sit at

our table. He won't fail me, I feel certain; but I apprehend his coming too late, and being separated from us. Here is a fresh batch arriving; every place will be taken. Provoking!"

In fact, Mr. Wynne the magistrate, his wife, his son, and his two daughters now entered in high state.

They were Briarfield gentry. Of course their place was at the first table, and being conducted thither,

they filled up the whole remaining space. For Miss Keeldar's comfort, Mr. Sam Wynne inducted himself into the very vacancy she had kept for Moore, planting himself solidly on her gown, her gloves, and her handkerchief. Mr. Sam was one of the objects of her aversion, and the more so because he showed serious symptoms of an aim at her hand. The old gentleman, too, had publicly declared that the Fieldhead estate and the De Walden estate were delightfully
contagious
—a malapropism which rumour had not failed to repeat to Shirley.

Caroline's ears yet rung with that thrilling whisper, "I expect Mr. Moore," her heart yet beat and her cheek yet glowed with it, when a note from the organ pealed above the confused hum of the place. Dr.

Boultby, Mr. Helstone, and Mr. Hall rose, so did all present, and grace was sung to the accompaniment

of the music; and then tea began. She was kept too busy with her office for a while to have leisure for

looking round, but the last cup being filled, she threw a restless glance over the room. There were some ladies and several gentlemen standing about yet unaccommodated with seats. Amidst a group she recognized her spinster friend, Miss Mann, whom the fine weather had tempted, or some urgent

friend had persuaded, to leave her drear solitude for one hour of social enjoyment. Miss Mann looked

tired of standing; a lady in a yellow bonnet brought her a chair. Caroline knew well that
chapeau en
satin jaune
; she knew the black hair, and the kindly though rather opinionated and froward-looking face under it; she knew that
robe de soie noire
, she knew even that
schall gris de lin
; she knew, in short, Hortense Moore, and she wanted to jump up and run to her and kiss her—to give her one embrace for her own sake and two for her brother's. She half rose, indeed, with a smothered exclamation, and perhaps—for the impulse was very strong—she would have run across the room and actually saluted her; but a hand replaced her in her seat, and a voice behind her whispered, "Wait till after tea, Lina, and then I'll bring her to you."

And when she
could
look up she did, and there was Robert himself close behind, smiling at her eagerness, looking better than she had ever seen him look—looking, indeed, to her partial eyes, so

very handsome that she dared not trust herself to hazard a second glance; for his image struck on her

vision with painful brightness, and pictured itself on her memory as vividly as if there

daguerreotyped by a pencil of keen lightning.

He moved on, and spoke to Miss Keeldar. Shirley, irritated by some unwelcome attentions from Sam Wynne, and by the fact of that gentleman being still seated on her gloves and handkerchief—and

probably, also, by Moore's want of punctuality—was by no means in good humour. She first

shrugged her shoulders at him, and then she said a bitter word or two about his "insupportable tardiness." Moore neither apologized nor retorted. He stood near her quietly, as if waiting to see whether she would recover her temper; which she did in little more than three minutes, indicating the

change by offering him her hand. Moore took it with a smile, half-corrective, half-grateful. The slightest possible shake of the head delicately marked the former quality; it is probable a gentle pressure indicated the latter.

"You may sit where you can now, Mr. Moore," said Shirley, also smiling. "You see there is not an inch of room for you here; but I discern plenty of space at Mrs. Boultby's table, between Miss Armitage and Miss Birtwhistle. Go! John Sykes will be your
vis-à-vis
, and you will sit with your back towards us."

Moore, however, preferred lingering about where he was. He now and then took a turn down the

long room, pausing in his walk to interchange greetings with other gentlemen in his own placeless predicament; but still he came back to the magnet, Shirley, bringing with him, each time he returned,

observations it was necessary to whisper in her ear.

Meantime poor Sam Wynne looked far from comfortable. His fair neighbour, judging from her

movements, appeared in a mood the most unquiet and unaccommodating. She would not sit still two

seconds. She was hot; she fanned herself; complained of want of air and space. She remarked that, in

her opinion, when people had finished their tea they ought to leave the tables, and announced distinctly that she expected to faint if the present state of things continued. Mr. Sam offered to accompany her into the open air; just the way to give her her death of cold, she alleged. In short, his

post became untenable; and having swallowed his quantum of tea, he judged it expedient to evacuate.

Moore should have been at hand, whereas he was quite at the other extremity of the room, deep in

conference with Christopher Sykes. A large corn-factor, Timothy Ramsden, Esq., happened to be nearer; and feeling himself tired of standing, he advanced to fill the vacant seat. Shirley's expedients did not fail her. A sweep of her scarf upset her teacup: its contents were shared between the bench and

her own satin dress. Of course, it became necessary to call a waiter to remedy the mischief. Mr.

Ramsden, a stout, puffy gentleman, as large in person as he was in property, held aloof from the consequent commotion. Shirley, usually almost culpably indifferent to slight accidents affecting dress, etc., now made a commotion that might have become the most delicate and nervous of her sex.

Mr. Ramsden opened his mouth, withdrew slowly, and, as Miss Keeldar again intimated her intention

to "give way" and swoon on the spot, he turned on his heel, and beat a heavy retreat.

Moore at last returned. Calmly surveying the bustle, and somewhat quizzically scanning Shirley's

enigmatical-looking countenance, he remarked that in truth this was the hottest end of the room, that

he found a climate there calculated to agree with none but cool temperaments like his own; and putting the waiters, the napkins, the satin robe—the whole turmoil, in short—to one side, he installed

himself where destiny evidently decreed he should sit. Shirley subsided; her features altered their lines; the raised knit brow and inexplicable curve of the mouth became straight again; wilfulness and

roguery gave place to other expressions; and all the angular movements with which she had vexed the

soul of Sam Wynne were conjured to rest as by a charm. Still no gracious glance was cast on Moore.

On the contrary, he was accused of giving her a world of trouble, and roundly charged with being the

cause of depriving her of the esteem of Mr. Ramsden and the invaluable friendship of Mr. Samuel Wynne.

"Wouldn't have offended either gentleman for the world," she averred. "I have always been accustomed to treat both with the most respectful consideration, and there, owing to you, how they have been used! I shall not be happy till I have made it up. I never am happy till I am friends with my

neighbours. So to-morrow I must make a pilgrimage to Royd corn-mill, soothe the miller, and praise

the grain; and next day I must call at De Walden—where I hate to go—and carry in my reticule half an

oatcake to give to Mr. Sam's favourite pointers."

"You know the surest path to the heart of each swain, I doubt not," said Moore quietly. He looked very content to have at last secured his present place; but he made no fine speech expressive of gratification, and offered no apology for the trouble he had given. His phlegm became him

wonderfully. It made him look handsomer, he was so composed; it made his vicinage pleasant, it was

so peace-restoring. You would not have thought, to look at him, that he was a poor, struggling man

seated beside a rich woman; the calm of equality stilled his aspect; perhaps that calm, too, reigned in

his soul. Now and then, from the way in which he looked down on Miss Keeldar as he addressed her,

you would have fancied his station towered above hers as much as his stature did. Almost stern lights

sometimes crossed his brow and gleamed in his eyes. Their conversation had become animated, though it was confined to a low key; she was urging him with questions—evidently he refused to her

curiosity all the gratification it demanded. She sought his eye once with hers. You read, in its soft yet eager expression, that it solicited clearer replies. Moore smiled pleasantly, but his lips continued sealed. Then she was piqued, and turned away; but he recalled her attention in two minutes. He seemed

making promises, which he soothed her into accepting in lieu of information.

It appeared that the heat of the room did not suit Miss Helstone. She grew paler and paler as the process of tea-making was protracted. The moment thanks were returned she quitted the table, and hastened to follow her cousin Hortense, who, with Miss Mann, had already sought the open air.

Robert Moore had risen when she did—perhaps he meant to speak to her; but there was yet a parting

word to exchange with Miss Keeldar, and while it was being uttered Caroline had vanished.

Hortense received her former pupil with a demeanour of more dignity than warmth. She had been

seriously offended by Mr. Helstone's proceedings, and had all along considered Caroline to blame in

obeying her uncle too literally.

"You are a very great stranger," she said austerely, as her pupil held and pressed her hand. The pupil knew her too well to remonstrate or complain of coldness. She let the punctilious whim pass,

sure that her natural
bonté
(I use this French word because it expresses just what I mean—neither goodness nor good-nature, but something between the two) would presently get the upper hand. It did.

Hortense had no sooner examined her face well, and observed the change its somewhat wasted features betrayed, than her mien softened. Kissing her on both cheeks, she asked anxiously after her